Homeless Bob, no last name please.

He sits on the steps of the under-utilized Crowell-Collier building, arranging bags that encompass his worldly goods. He needs a shave. His hands are dirty. He wears a new “Navy” hat that came from the shelter. His name is Bob and Bob is homeless.
“You look at me and feel sorry,” he says between sips from a large can of Steel Reserve ale. “But you’re the shithead. I can pick up and leave right now and never look back. How about you?”
Bob, no last name please, won’t say how long he has been homeless. “I been a free spirit my whole life,” is about as close as you’ll get. He spends his time panhandling and searching for cigarette butts. His “butt trail”, as he calls it, leads him from the main branch of the library to the Union Club parking lot, to the Eagles front steps. At each stop on his search, Bob sifts through discarded cigarette butts. “Here’s a keeper.” Bob says when he finds one that is still smokable.
According to the Homeless Outreach Project, approximately .8 percent of the population or two million people are homeless in the United States. Of this two million, approximately half a million are mentally ill.
Bob denies that he has any mental disability. “I know’d what’s happening around me.” Though he denies a disability, Bob might be found the next minute asking for your name for the hundredth time or for more money.
Smoking a discarded butt, Bob tells me about his life. “I’m from up Baltimore (Ohio) way. I growed up there, but aint been back for a long time. Don’t know if there’s anyone left who would know me.” When asked about his family, Bob says, “They don’t want nothin’ to do with somebody like me, my Mom was a nice lady but she’s been dead for awhile. Since she’s been gone, I told ‘em all they can kiss my ass.” Alienation aside, Bob shows that he has a soft spot for them. “I guess it aint their fault. Sometimes I aint so lovable.”
According to the Homeless Outreach Project, approximately 40 percent of the male homeless population are veterans. Bob says that he is no exception. “I was in the Army a ways back.” He says that he qualifies for a pension from the army but has never applied for it due to the needs of the government. “They need it worse than I do.”
Bob does alright when it comes to food. He makes a circuit from one church to another as they offer the homeless meals. “The secret is to be early. If you’re late, you don’t get nothin’.”
As we waited in line at Saint John’s Lutheran Church for their weekly meal for the homeless, a look around at Bob’s fellow diners shows a cross-section of race, age, and gender. Children play as their parent or parents try to calm them down. Some of the adults sit on the sidewalk, talking with one another or just to themselves. They come in all shapes and sizes with one thing in common, they are hungry. “I like this place. You get a care package.” Bob says after dinner, holding up a Kroger bag with an apple and a bologna sandwich inside. “It’s my midnight snack.” He chuckles.
Bob sleeps on the steps at the Crowell-Collier building. He says that he prefers it to the shelter where they ask a lot of questions. “I can sleep here and nobody bothers me too much. If you take the charity, they’s some nosy sonsabitches.” Bob says that he keeps warm on cold nights by using layers. “You can stay warm if you know how. The give us blankets when it’s cold. You have to put one around your feet, one on your head, and then one on top. You’ll always stay warm that way.”
Bob does not glamorize the life of the homeless, but he can be philosophical “This life sucks if you let it, but if you got what you need it aint so bad.” He says, taking a drink from his beer and holding a cigarette butt in the other hand. “Hey you got five dollars?”